And then the spring of my unstain'd affection, With roses drest, and lilies sweetly grew, Whose ruddy look gave it a fair complexion, Till frowning Winter gave't another hue. But stay, thou know'st already why I sing, And why my heavy verse so gently move thee, For that alone I did these sonnets bring, That by these plaints thou may'st perceive I love thee: For out of nothing, nothing can be brought, And that which is, can ne'er be turn'd to nought. |